She’s just as beautiful in a ponytail and blue jeans as she is dressed to do the town.

She can stand on the brink of self-discovery, and she can pull herself back from the edge of self-destruction.

She is a survivor.

She is a child. She delights in rainbows and butterflies; horses and puppies; bubbles, balloons and snowflakes; the flight of a tern as it takes wing over the water of a still morning lake.

She can spend hours dreaming of the things she would like to do and be, but not one minute wishing away for a life that might have been.

She is strong. She is soft. Within her strength lies her tenderness and her softness harbors her determination.

She is a demon when something touches that spark within that ignites the flame of her sense of anger and injustice.

She is wild. She is untamed. She is infectious.

She can even be addictive.

It doesn’t matter how worldly or how knowledgeable she seems, in her innermost heart there lies the purity of innocence and her faith and belief in the basic good of other people. And that heart beats fiercely and passionately, driven by desire.

She is willful. She is stubborn. She is tender. She is shy.

Her dreams fly upon gossamer wings, knowing full well that dreams can be broken, but knowing just as well the beauty of the birth of new dreams.

She grieves for the state of the world, yet finds wonder in the world that surrounds her.

To look upon her face, to have those eyes turn, gazing in wonder and astonishment at the world around her, to look at you with that gaze; doesn’t that touch something within you in a place so deep that there is no name for it, no map that can charter it?

For all the praise that could be lavished upon her, she won’t be placed upon a pedestal. To be lovingly admired just isn’t her style. To be appreciated, yes. Spoiled, even. But she wants to know that she is real. Not a fragile, porcelain doll. More like Raggedy Ann; a doll made for holding and cuddling, made to withstand the rugged handling that love so richly bestows along with the tenderness that accompanies the handling.

And doesn’t it illicit a desire within you to touch her? To claim her? To reach her in a way and in a place where she’s never been reached before? That nameless place hidden somewhere within the very soul of her that she may not even be aware of its existence.

She expects respect and expects to earn it. Likewise, it is not something she gives freely.

Walk with her. Talk with her. Hold her hand. Touch her cheek. She is incredibly human.

Her love for life is astonishing in its simplicity.

Her love for you is even more astonishing in its complexity.

She is compelling. She is complicated.

But she prefers the term “multi-faceted.”

She is majestic. She is humble.

She makes no pretense to perfection. To expect perfection in an imperfect world is folly, but she strives to be the best she can be and expects no less from those she meets.

Those who underestimate her find themselves awestruck by her unexpectedness. Those who take her for granted are left behind in the dust of her victories.

Somewhere, somewhere between her childlike wonder, her innocence and her adult reasoning, there is a woman waiting to be discovered.

And there’s something there that is worth taking a lifetime to discover. To love a small part of her or only one aspect of her, is to deny the euphoria of knowing the woman as a whole in all of her unique diversities, in all of her triumphs and foibles, wisdoms, depths and knowledge.

All of these diverse qualities do not belong to just one woman. They are a part of all women. They are the strands of a cobweb; they are what make each woman unique and individual and beautiful and yet these strands are strong enough to bind us together as sisters.

So, when you ask her who she is, and she responds, “I’m just a woman,” what she is really saying is, “I am so much more.”